He had reached the supreme point in his life. His friends had assured him only yesterday that the crown would again be offered him in the Senate, and that this time he must accept it. The hour had come. By sunset he would be Imperator, the first emperor of Rome. His beloved, Cleopatra, in his villa in the suburbs, was with his son, Caesarion. He regretted that it was not to Caesarion that the crown would descend, but to Octavius his nephew. He thought of his unacknowledged son, Marcus Brutus, of the gloomy brows and the narrow and strenuous nature. But Octavius, the fair and haughty, was a
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